


Those who try to take a stroll, Are sure to get the klink

by Vaysh, zombieunicorn



Series: I've Done My Hitch In Hell [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Azzano, Captain America: The First Avenger, Caretaker Bucky, Everyone in the 107th is awesome, Forced Labor, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Trash Party Lite, M/M, Nazis speaking German in podfic, Oh who am I kidding, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Terminology, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes, Pre-Slash, Prisoner of War, Very Lite, World War II, it's pre-slash, period typical anti-semitism, period typical racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-05 15:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11581044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombieunicorn/pseuds/zombieunicorn
Summary: After the Battle of Azzano, Bucky is somehow the most senior officer of the 107th left alive.  Now keeping his guys breathing is a much bigger war than fighting the Krauts.





	Those who try to take a stroll, Are sure to get the klink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theletterelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theletterelle/gifts).



> You guys can blame theletterelle for this. It was her idea. 
> 
> **Author's Note:** My love and adoration forever to Vaysh for letting me put HORRIBLE things in the mouths of Hydra soldiers and then SAYING THEM IN GERMAN FOR ME. I'm a slut for authenticity, bless her damn heart. This was a pleasure and a half :D
> 
> This story is the first in what will be a 3 or 4 part series I've been planning for months. The series title comes from the poem [Hitch in Hell](http://www.merkki.com/poetry.htm) by an unknown author interned at a German POW camp.
> 
>  **Podficcer's Note:** Love and adoration back to Zombieunicorn who wrote this brilliant fic and let me read it, even making use of my German accent for Arnim Zola and the Hydra agents. I failed, alas, to give Zola a real Swiss accent, and the Hydra agents now sound a bit like they're all from Swabia. :)
> 
> For authenticity, we decided to not translate German commands and curses, in all instances when Bucky does not understand them and has to turn to Gabe for translation. English-language readers miss nothing but painstakingly researched curses used by German soldiers in World War II.
> 
>    
> The story title is from the [P.O.W. Blues](http://www.merkki.com/poetry.htm) by an unknown author interned at a German POW camp.  
> The podfic cover was created by Vaysh.

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[mp3](http://www.hdcareerfair.de/Storage/podcasts/Those-who-take-a-stroll.mp3) (24.8 MB) | [m4a](http://www.hdcareerfair.de/Storage/podcasts/Those-who-take-a-stroll.m4a) (17.9 MB)

 

To say that the107th loses Azzano is like saying there are a couple people living in New York. It was a sloppy goatfuck of an operation and Bucky still can’t believe any of them got out of there alive, even if it’s tied up and dragged away.

Dum-Dum Dugan bumps Bucky’s shoulder in the back of the truck they’re herded into - “like fucking cattle” Gabe Jones whispered as they were marched in - and says, “We got any intel on where these Kraut bastards are based, Sarge?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything and neither does Jones even though, yeah, they both have an idea. Jones’s all-negro company is stationed with the 107th as auxiliary and ever since Anderson bought the farm six months ago, Jones has been their radio operator and a damn good one at that, better than Anderson ever was. Bucky couldn’t be more grateful for them in general and Gabe in particular, ‘specially now, when Jones’s silence is there to back up his own.

Before the battle, intelligence came in that the largest occupied site in range was less of a base and more of a munitions-factory-turned-labor-camp. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that’s where they’d be headed. Bucky thinks telling the men that when they’re already scared, wounded, exhausted and shell shocked is not something that will do any good. Jones agrees with him if the look on his face is any indication.

Bucky sighs. “We’ve just got to wait and see, Dum-Dum.”

“That’s a terrible answer,” Dum-Dum replies, lifting his bound wrists to adjust his bowler. He grins from under his mustache. “No offense. Sir.” Jones snorts and rolls his eyes at that.

Bucky smiles at them both. He hates that they’re here, out of the frying pan of the battlefield and into the fire of captivity but other guys aren’t here. Other guys got their guts and faces blown into bloody pastes and gaping holes of bone and skin. So, fuck, he’s so glad Dum-Dum and Gabe are both alive and with him. So long as Bucky can make sure they stay that way, he can deal with whatever comes next.

Unfortunately what comes next is a hanger filled with overwhelmingly bright lights and a metric fuckton of Nazis. They're in Europe after all so he figures even their fucktons are metric.

These assholes are wearing face masks like petty thieves that makes the stormtroopers look much more menacing than the average Kraut soldier and were shoving guns in their faces and screaming at them in German as they were headed into a room filled with circular cells.

"Get out of the truck! Raus aus dem Laster! Do you want to die tonight? Move! Los! Bewegung!"

"Single file. Eine Reihe! Get back in line before I shoot you in the fucking head. Give me a reason, Yankee. Just give me one reason. Eine Bewegung, und ich knall dir deinen verdammten Schädel weg."

"What the fuck are you doing out of line, soldier? Hände hoch, über den Kopf. Hands above your head. Let's go. Bewegung! Los!"

Most of the cells are already full. Their group comes to a halt in front of two in the middle. The guards shove them in, shouting all the while, and slam the doors shut behind them. Then, aside from the rumble of indistinct conversation from the cells around them, silence falls.

None of Bucky’s men say anything. They stand at a quiet parade rest and watch him as he does his best to figure out what they’re dealing with. At least two hundred other prisoners from other companies, maybe other units from other nations, although probably all Allies. There’s no way to tell until they start asking. There are twelve people in his cell, ten in the next and it goes like that for as far as he can see with a range from about ten to fifteen men each. There are no ceilings, just bars over the top which could have all sorts of unpleasant implications.

Bucky doesn’t let himself think about it. Instead he whistles lowly and calls, “107th, to me. We’re doing a head count. Hands up if you’re in Alpha, Bravo, or Charlie Company.” A few of his men have to push against the bars of the neighboring cell but when Bucky’s done calling roll, he realizes he’s got less than two dozen guys left, which is a waking nightmare because they started out with two hundred. Jesus. He crosses himself like he hasn’t done since he and Steve put Sarah Rogers in the ground three years ago. Jesus fucking Christ.

At least they’re together so that’s something. He’s heard of units being split up in POW camps. His haven’t. Bucky knows about half of them by face from Dum-Dum and Gabe. He checks them off on sight and finds that he’s still got Ira Rosenberg, Daniel Moore, Robert Freeman, Seamus O’Quinn, Kelly Gallagher, Antonio Bianchi and Henry Winchester from his own company.

Winchester is the only one he can’t see from where he’s standing but Bucky knows he’s there, heard Winchester answer when he did the roll. As long as he can hear him, it’s all pretty par for the course with him, though. Winchester has a habit of disappearing into the background of any situation. Makes him a damn useful scout, if fucking difficult to get a hold of any other time.

That means the rest of the guys are from B and C company, part of his unit but not _his guys_. Well shit. They’re his guys now.

“Try and rest up, fellas,” Bucky orders. “Who knows what we’ll be facing in the morning."

“Nothing good,” comes a voice from another cell. “They don’t always remember to feed us so if you’ve got any rations on you, save ‘em.”

Bucky’s got nothing. He doesn’t know about the other guys but he’s not going to push, not tonight anyway. They’re stretched too thin. Tomorrow could hold anything. He knows it could cost them their lives but he doesn’t have it in him to be Sarge tonight. He’s just not that strong.

~*~*~

The next morning, the angry stormtroopers haul everyone out of their cells except for the men from the 107th. Bucky’s men are lined up in front of the cells, single file, while a short, toady blond man walks up and down their line, examining them like horses at auction.

He stops in front of Freeman and pokes him in the chest with a finger. “Who are you?” he demands in perfect, if heavily accented, English. “What do you do for the American Army?”

“Robert Freeman. Light infantry.”

“And in your country?”

“Was a student at Morehouse University with early acceptance to Harvard Law upon my return.” Freeman’s eyes cut over to Gabe’s. Freeman likes to say that you can tell a Morehouse man but you can’t tell him much, and Gabe likes to reply that Howard is superior from the grass on the lawns to the diplomas they grant until they start throwing cigarettes at each other. Their school rivalry is a source of entertainment for both of them and Bucky’s glad to see it, 'specially now, even if he’d never heard of Morehouse or Howard before he met them.

“I see. And you?” The man pokes Rosenberg next. “What is your assignment?”

“You can call me Rosie. I’m here on vacation, Specks,” Rosenberg replies gamely, grinning his crooked grin at the toady little man. “Always wanted to see the old country, eat all my food out of cans in the dirt.”

Rosenberg is listed as a Christian Scientist on his dog tags but he’s from Brownsville and he keeps his chai necklace tucked under his shirt at all times. They’ve heard things, bad things, about what the Nazis are doing to the Jews here in Europe. So, when Bucky calls him out he’s careful not to say his name but yells, “Corporal!” instead.

“It’s all right, Sergeant Barnes. A little personality can be charming in these trying times. And tell me, ah, Rosie, what do you do back in America?”

“Besides polish Meyer Lansky’s car on the regular? Jeweler’s apprentice.”

Rosenberg is actually training to fix the wiring in radios, telegraphs, and telephones, but he was never the type to give a straight answer to someone he didn’t like. Bucky’s not sure about the Meyer Lansky thing, though. Some of the things Rosenberg had gotten via post since their tour together started, he shouldn’t have been able to. Not to mention Rosenberg and Murder Inc. are based out of the same neighborhood and, if Rosie isn't lying, go to the same shul. It’s enough to make him wonder. At least a little.

“Ah. An eye for detail. Excellent. We can work with that. And you, young man?”

He stops next in front of Kelly Gallagher, the one all of them call the Kid, who turned eighteen two weeks ago. The Kid is shaking so hard he can’t actually answer but it’s clear he’s trying hard to be brave. Bucky answers for him, says that he’s an infantry man and he just graduated high school and to leave the boy the fuck alone.

“When I require an answer from you, Sergeant, I’ll ask for it.”

The little man goes down the line the same for everyone except Winchester, who he seems to forget. Bucky looks down the row but Winchester puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. Typical fucking Winchester, disappearing out of the path of the shit whenever it hits the fan. The man could wear white linen into the New York sewer system and walk out with a cleaner sparkle than the polished flatware at the Ritz.

Whatever. If he doesn’t get fed because of this then that’s his business and if it keeps him safe, that's one less thing for Bucky to worry about.

“Your assignments will be given upon your arrival to the factory,” the toady man declares. “You will not ask for a change. You will work without complaint. If you work hard, you will be fed. If you do not, you will suffer the consequences. I am Dr. Zola.” He gives them all a thin smile coated in slime. “You do not want to meet with me again. Now, march.”

Bucky can’t shake the cold feeling as they trudge towards a shiny factory. It intensifies as Dr. Zola separates his unit like he’s dealing cards. Dum-Dum and Rosenberg are sent away from him and over to men in white coats, no doubt for their technical skills. The rest of the men are scattered around in the huge space but Gabe sticks with him for his language skills so that he can command his men and thankfully the Kid does too so Bucky can keep an eye on him. The odd man out is Winchester who just sort of lingers by Bucky looking awkward because Dr. Zola didn’t give him an assignment, as if he slipped the doctor’s mind.

“Just do what we do, Hank,” Bucky says picking up one of the strange glowing blue boxes. “I know you’re a book man so don’t forget to lift with your legs.”

Winchester looks pained. “My name’s Henry, Sarge. Henry.”

“Sure thing, Hank,” Bucky says with a wink. “Whatever you say.” That makes the Kid laugh and Bucky feels a little better about the whole thing.

Kelly Gallagher wouldn’t pick a fight or run into a conflict like Steve would but he brings out the same protective instincts in Bucky. They look nothing alike. The Kid has a round baby face, six-foot frame, and Black Irish coloring but taking care of him gives Bucky the same boost.

With the Kid’s spirits lifted, it’s not that hard to get through the day. Bucky’s been humping across the Western front for months and before that he was a day laborer (and sometimes night during months when he and Steve came up short). The quiet is the worst part of the whole thing, the lack of conversation, joking and singing. Well that and the Kraut fuckers with guns.

According to Gabe, they don’t consider themselves Nazis or even SS. They call themselves Hydra. It explains the weird octopus on their armbands. It doesn’t explain why they get meaner as the day goes on.

“Maybe they’re just tired?” Emerson Van Bauer, a Manhattanite from C Company (who no one is willing to call by his last name because seriously, no silk stocking motherfucker is going to prance around their unit like a princess) offers as they’re lined up to return to their cell.

“Yeah, sure, Auntie Em. And maybe they’re just fascist assholes?” Rosenberg offers.

Emerson chuckles. “Always so negative, Rosie. You look for the worst in people, you do.”

“Punk, you’ve known me twenty minutes.”

Emerson clicks his tongue at Rosenberg. “Scoundrel! Did last night on that concrete floor mean nothing to you?”

The Kid laughs so hard at that it echoes through the hollow metal filled space. It echoes like a bell, clear and bright, and Bucky grins. They’re all smiling until a Hydra soldier’s baton cuts through the air and catches the Kid across the face so hard he crashes into Freeman, knocking them both to the floor.

The soldier is shouting and the 107th is shouting right back.

"I want quiet, so shut your goddamn mouths and get in line. Jetzt sofort! Do it now! Now! In die Reihe und Schnauze! Get in fucking line and shut up. Move, you sons of bitches."

“What the fuck, Fritz! He was just laughing!” Dum-Dum demands.

“Help me get them up,” Emerson says, reaching out to them. Other members of the unit are helping too, even as they’re shouting at the Hydra agents who are crowding around them with guns.

"Jetzt aber los! In die Reihe, Hände hoch, kein Wort mehr. Bewegt endlich eure lahmen Ärsche. Wir haben nicht den ganzen Tag für diesen Scheiß! Zwei Minuten, und alle stehen in der Reihe. Sonst war's das, und ich leg euch sofort um."

“Nazi fucker,” Rosenberg snarls.

“Gabe,” Bucky calls, trying to keep his voice steady. He doesn’t know if he’s succeeding. He’s had practice worrying over Steve but he doesn’t know if it was enough training for this. “What’s he saying?”

“He’s telling us to shut up and get in line. They’re telling us to put our hands up.” Gabe looks at him with wide, worried eyes. “I think we should do it.”

“Hands up, guys,” Bucky shouts, and his men’s hands shoot for the sky except for Freeman, Rosenberg, and Emerson who are on the ground trying to help the Kid up.

"Lasst ihn liegen. Liegenlassen. Marsch, marsch, in die Reihe treten!

The Hydra officers are shouting again and Gabe says, “They said to leave him.”

“Fuck that shit,” Rosenberg snaps. “They can go fuck themselves.”

“Agreed,” Emerson murmurs. Freeman says nothing just helps pull Kelly upwards.

"Weg da! Lasst ihn liegen!" The Hydra agent shouts what must mean “leave him” again and again and one of those blue guns charges up and Bucky pushes himself between his men and the soldier. “Gabe, tell him to calm down.” 

Gabe does but the soldier says it again – "Los jetzt, marsch, marsch! Verdammte Huren-Cowboys, lasst den Rotarsch endlich liegen! Abmarsch!" – to leave him along with a few other words that are probably swears that would turn a sailor’s tongue blue. “Tell him I ordered them to get him up and they can’t disobey my order.”

Gabe does and the guns ease back. Bianchi and O’Quinn slide in around the Kid, adding additional shielding until the soldiers start getting antsy again. Bucky turns his head as much as he can without breaking eye contact with the soldier. “Can he stand?”

O’Quinn, who is in his mid-forties and really too old to be in the shit like this, nods. Bucky can barely see it but it’s enough. “Okay. Boys, back up. Pops, stay with him. Everybody else, fall in.”

“But Sarge-“

“That’s an order, Rosie. Fall the fuck in.”

Bucky doesn't breathe until his men are back in single file. The Kid is standing on his own power, barely, but he's standing. Freeman has wedged himself behind him so that Gallagher can fall back against him as they march if it comes to that. He stumbles but doesn’t fall. Thank Christ.

When they’re shoved into their cells, they crowd around the Kid until they’re sure he’s far away from the door. Freeman, Winchester, Bianchi and Moore have circled the wagons around him in the fire cell when one of the stormtroopers grabs Rosenberg by the back of the neck.

He’s thrown hard against the outer bars, face first. He hits so hard there’s a thud and he falls sidewise onto the floor. Dum-Dum charges the guy and O’Quinn is at his side and the rest of Bucky’s guys can barely hold them back from a down-and-out brawl with their captors that will get them killed. In the chaos, Bucky sees Emerson bodily drag Rosenberg inside the second cell and pull him as far from the door as possible. When Gabe is done trying to protest in German and the skirmish has stilled, Bucky goes with them into the second cell because Gallagher may be banged up but at least he can still stand.

The Hydra troopers laugh as the doors slam shut. Dum-Dum glares at them. “Fucking yuk it up, Fritz,” he shouts as they walk away. “Just yuk it up.”

“Come on, Rosie,” Emerson murmurs. Rosenberg is sprawled on the cement, his head in Emerson’s lap. The two of them are taking up more space than they can probably spare but when Bucky drops into a crouch beside them, he can see that Rosenberg’s face is soaked in blood from where his nose is broken and that his eyes are closed. So no one is going to give them any shit.

“Come on. Give us a glare. We need to make sure they didn’t scramble your brains too badly.”

“We lost our medic at Azzano,” Bucky says softly. He’s got the first aid Sarah taught him so if Rosenberg opens his eyes, he can deal with the possible concussion but that’s it. None of the guys he’s got left are equipped to deal with a possible head injury.

“He’ll be fine,” Emerson says firmly. His uptown jaw has a stubborn set to it that makes him more like Steve than the Kid ever could. “We’ll all be fine.”

“Just let me know when he opens his eyes,” Bucky mutters as Gabe settles at his shoulder and Dum-Dum crouches behind them.

They’re all looking down at Rosenberg’s thin, angular face, watching Emerson thumb blood off his chin and mouth. He looks pale as dust on Emerson’s muddy pants. His dark hair is as matted and dirty as any of theirs but the way Emerson’s long, elegant fingers look dragging through the fringe make it even worse.

“Yes, Sarge,” Emerson says. His voice his hoarse, and even in the dim light of their prison, Bucky can see the fear in his eyes.

“The rest of you, catch what sleep you can. We’ve got more of the same in the morning.” He gives Emerson a squeeze on the shoulder. “And if he wakes up, you wake me up. No heroic shit. We clear, Auntie Em?”

Emerson nods in assent, forcing a grim smile at Bucky’s use of Rosenberg’s nickname that does little to relieve his strain. Bucky can’t blame him. It’s been a fucker of a few days for everyone but things happen in extreme circumstances that’ll tie groups of guys together in ways that aren’t always what you’d expect. He’d seen it happen before – for guys who are now dead on the field in Azzano – and he’s not surprised that it’s happening again now. So he won’t ask the man to rest when his buddy is still cold-cocked.

They grumble and lean against each other as best they can to find comfortable sleeping positions in what is basically a wide concrete circle surrounded and topped with bars. Bucky’s never been big on prayer, not like Steve, but he does send out a little request to whatever might be out there listening that Rosenberg lives through the night so that maybe he and Mr. Emerson Van Bauer, Esquire (or not, because Bucky doesn’t know if Emerson’s got an esquire after his name really) can have the kind of friendship that Bucky’s been lucky enough to find.

He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep on Dum-Dum’s shoulder when a hand is shaking him awake. It’s dark but not pitch black. He can’t see much past the end of his own nose but he lets the arm pull him to the right until he’s bent over Rosenberg's face. His brown-black eyes are shining in the dark and he’s grinning up at Bucky from his spot with his head still resting on Emerson’s thighs.

“Auntie Em said you wanted to talk to me, Sarge?” Rosenberg whispers. “A bit late for chitchat, though.”

“Couldn’t have you napping on the job, corporal,” Bucky chides. He can feel relief echoing through every inch of his body at the sound of his soldier’s voice. “Your nose is a giant mess. We’ll have to clean you up in the morning.”

“Sarge, I know what it says on my tags but we all know I’m a Yid,” Rosenberg chirps. “It’s supposed to look like that.”

Emerson chokes on a laugh that sounds a little like a sob and Bucky laughs with him. In the near-dark, he can see Rosenberg grinning in accomplishment. They’ve made it through this. Rosenberg is awake and the night is already half over.

Bucky hates how few of them he has left after Azzano but in this case it’s actually a blessing. There’s less than two dozen of his guys here. They’re POWs now. All they have to do is toe the line, keep out of trouble, wait for a change in what Bucky can tell is going to be a brutal status quo. Whether that change takes them to escape, rescue, or something else, Bucky doesn’t know but he’ll handle it when they get there. He has to.

~*~*~

For two days things are okay. Then Zola comes to the cells at the end of their long day. He was right. None of them wants to see him again.

The stormtroopers salute him and chorus, “Heil, Hydra!” which is interesting. Bucky files that away for later because what the fuck. He thought they were fighting Nazis. He doesn’t know what Hydra is.

“Hail Hydra,” Zola drawls in English as he looks at Bucky and his men like so much meat in a butcher’s shop. He stops after five agonizing minutes then points at Bianchi. "Nehmt den da," he says in his Swiss accented German.

Unfortunately, Bucky doesn’t realize what that means until the stormtroopers, Hydra soldiers, pull open the door of the holding cell next to his. The goons are holding sticks that glow a cold, beautiful blue. It pushes the other men to the edge of the cell, backing away as they swipe at them and reach for Bianchi.

Freeman gets a blow to the back of one of their helmets which earns him nothing but a bruised hand and a jab with the stick before they get hold of Bianchi. There’s a burning smell and a shout. Then Freeman goes down, disappearing from Bucky’s sight. Seconds later, Bianchi is dragged out, struggling into the corridor between the cells.

“Don’t fight,” Zola advises in careful English. “You’ll only make things worse for yourself, soldier. No one wants that.”

“Sarge!” Bianchi calls, kicking and biting at his captors so hard he looks like a worm on a hook. “Sarge, Jesus, please, help me!”

“Your Sergeant Barnes can’t help you now, I’m afraid. Relax. Walk with us. Be a man.”

Bianchi spits at him. “Fuck you, you slimy Nazi cocksucker.”

"Bisschen mehr Respekt, Makkaroni, wenn du mit dem Herr Doktor redest. Sonst schneid ich dir die Zunge raus aus deinem dreckigen Schweinefickermaul," growls the stormtrooper at Zola's side.

Bucky doesn't know what that means but Doktor has to refer to Zola and the rest of it sounds fuck awful.

“Hey,” Bucky shouts. He wraps his hands around the bars and presses his face into the gap. “Look at me. It’s okay, Nino. It’s fine. Just go. You’re okay.”

“Sarge,” he pleads. Antonio Bianchi is older than him by five years, but right now he glances at Bucky with huge, bright brown eyes that make him look like a little boy. Bucky wants to pull him close and protect him, protect all his guys, but he can’t. He can’t stop this, can’t stop any of this.

“Go, Nino. That’s an order.”

He watches as Bianchi bats the stormtroopers' hands away. Zola jerks his chin and they let him go. Bianchi climbs to his feet, squares his shoulders and tips his sharp, stubbled chin up in stubborn defiance. “Sir, yes sir.”

“Good man,” Bucky says, his voice steady but his smile shaky. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Zola makes a humming noise to voice his impatience. Bianchi nods and marches off, making the soldiers rush to catch up to him. Bucky’s smile steadies at that. He’s sure Bianchi will be okay.

He’s wrong. They can hear what they think is screaming the next night after they come back from the factory. They huddle together like sheep in a pen while wolves howl in the distance. In the afternoon, a guard appears at Bucky's side during his work and holds out his hand. Antonio Bianchi’s tags are dangling from his fingers.

Bucky snatches them from him and rubs his thumb over the hammered indentation declaring Nino’s serial number, his blood type, that Maria G. Bianchi is his next of kin, that he’s from New York, NY and a small C declaring him Catholic. There’s no blood, no sweat, no sign of distress or impact on the tags or chain that he can see or feel. There is no clue as to how he died, no matter how long Bucky stares.

“He’s gone?” a voice asks, cutting into his daze. He looks up and finds Gallagher looking at him.

“Yeah. Get back to work, Kid.”

“What-“

“Get back to work, private. Don’t make me give you an order.”

The Kid nods and sets himself to the task at hand. They’re building machines for Hydra, weapons if Bucky had to lay money on it. He doesn’t know what they do – maybe something energy-based if Bucky were to guess and its an educated one.

He never had any training but he’s done a lot of reading on his own. He knows how machines work, electricity, circuitry, and physics. It’s always been interesting to him, the way art is to Steve. If he’d had a chance to follow his schoolboy interests all the way to trade school or even college, he might have joined the Army Corps of Engineers rather than sitting around waiting to be drafted. He could have been fixing tanks and blowing up bridges for the Allies if they’d just had some fucking money but instead he’s here, building what are probably super-guns for the enemy.

“You okay, Sarge?” Gabe asks at his elbow.

“I ordered him to go,” Bucky says hollow. His hands are moving but all he can see now is the sharp edge Nino’s jaw had cut as he walked away from them. Because Bucky told him to.

“You’re his CO. You were trying to make sure he stayed safe. You couldn’t have known how it would turn out. You did your best. We care that you tried,” Gabe says. “I’d have wanted you to do that for me but we won’t ask it from you.” He reaches out and gives Bucky’s shoulders a squeeze. “So don’t worry about us.”

Zola doesn’t give him time to worry. He appears the next morning and plucks a man down the hall from them as they stream out of their cells. Bucky can’t see who it is but he’s pretty sure the few British voices he’s heard in the factory are down that far. The man they march out is struggling but quiet – grunting as he tries to break out of his restraints but nothing more. The will to live is too strong to be stamped down into calmness completely with rational acceptance of the situation alone. When Zola and his small group are out of sight, Bucky and Gabe share a look.

“What the hell is he doing?” Bucky hisses.

“How do we stop him from taking us, is the more important question here, Sarge.”

“Either. Both. They’re connected. We’ve got to work. But you tell Dum-Dum and then you both can go from there telling everyone else so we can see about making some kind of plan. Whoever comes back wins, and the goal is for everyone to live.”

“Okay, Sarge.”

It goes farther than Bucky was expecting. It ripples into the English cells and he even has a French lieutenant pass him on the factory floor, stop in a false collision to cough into his hand, but quickly giving Bucky’s left arm a squeeze, the small move letting him know they are in favor as well.

It is enough to start with.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I mentioned being an authenticity junkie so a quick note about Ira Rosenberg: I knew Jewish men who fought in WWII. One who actually listed himself as Jewish was sent to the Pacific where a high number of Jewish servicemen were sent because the US government knew _exactly_ what was going on in Europe. The many other Jews listed themselves as other religions, particularly Christian Scientist and Protestant, so that they could fight in Europe without being scrutinized.
> 
> Ira Rosenberg may also be based on a real Jewish man I knew who was a smart ass, a ladykiller, an insubordinate soldier and a genuine low-level runner in the 30s for La Cosa Nostra in his neighborhood but never made a career out of it anywhere because he was Jewish. ;P


End file.
